


Prayers

by randomisedmongoose



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Philosophy, and no-one to blame but himself, apotheosis, godhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomisedmongoose/pseuds/randomisedmongoose
Summary: Godhood isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Relationships: Artagan & Jester Lavorre, Jester Lavorre & The Traveler
Kudos: 31





	Prayers

**Author's Note:**

> Artagan is a bastard and I love him.

He would be the first to agree that he was ill-suited for this. In fact, being ill-suited was the whole point, if you thought about it – being chaotic, being strange, being other.

He never set out to be a god. Sure, having followers was good, devotees, believers, people to play with, teach tricks to, fool and meddle with – but he hadn’t been prepared for that fact that faith is a two-way street; a river that goes both ways. It flows into you until it spills over, and then flows back. And with every new devotee, the vessel grows. Growth is painful, growth changes. The tree’s bark slits as it grows new branches, the skin gains stripes as it expands; growth changes, irrevocably.

If he had one personal tenet it was always the avoidance of discomfort, and now, his life was nothing but discomfort. The prayers, that was the problem. With omnipotence (or the limited approximation of it that could be granted anything lesser than the soul of the multiverse) came omnicognisance – at least pertaining to his followers. With apotheosis looming came the horrible realisation that with hearing everything came the inability to not hear, seeing everything meant that even if you closed your eyes you. Still. Saw.

There was a chorus of voices, babbling in his head at all times.

_Traveller, please grant me…_

_I dedicate this prank to your name…_

_Please, Lord of the Archway, I need…_

_Hey, God, watch this!_

The world was round, there was always someone awake somewhere, and they always spoke to him. He folded in on himself, hands on his long ears, fingers curling into the wild mane of hair. The prayers never stopped. Please. I need. Will you. See me. Love me.

_Let me go!_

And in the middle of it, her voice. The voice that, for the longest time, had been the first and the only. It cut through everything when she spoke, cancelling out the others.

She was so powerful now, and growing every day. He could see and feel the pain of her growth, too. It made him feel… bad? Unhappy? Was this empathy? Sympathy? He saw her pain and wished it wasn’t, not only for his sake but for hers. For him, that had seen the whole of reality as his plaything, to suddenly _care_ , was painful in and of itself. And at the same time, it was exhilarating; it was expansion into a while new territory, a new feeling, the kick he always chased, new, shiny, unexplored.

He looked at his hands. Inexplicably, it was harder to change now. He could feel the power, snaking under his skin like quicksilver worms, but it tethered him at the same time. This shape was the one they believed in, and conversely, this shape was the easiest to hold. Through the doorway they had made for him, he had, like a child looking at an adult, imagined the freedom, the possibilities, the endless playing field of the Prime Material right at his fingertips. And now? Responsibilities, limitations, conformity.

His ex had always said that he was such a good liar that he believed himself, and it was true. It was a prerequisite of being an Archfey, lying about the world until it became what you wanted it to be. (Except the Theatre. Try as he may, that wouldn’t go away.) But this time, he’d lied so well that others had not only believed him, but started to believe _in_ him; and one by one, their belief had changed him. He looked at his hands, the power shining through them like light through stained glass, faith filling him up, overflowing and changing not the world, but the minds of his believers, and they in turn, changed the world instead.

The vessel grows as it's filled, but not every vessel is made to grow. Sometimes, instead of expanding, it cracks. For the first time in his life, he wished that there was something he could pray to, to be granted guidance and security and stillness of mind.

There was no-one.

No-one but her. The one who always listened, the one who was always up for a good lark, his favourite, his First.

Surely, Jester would know what to do?

At least, he prayed she would.


End file.
